We checked into the Shannon Shamrock, a kind of motel popular with airline pilots. The lobby smelt of peat and Guinness. I used my real name. Jim used the name James Fitzgerald. We had a drink. The pilots were narrating horrifying tales of near misses and bad landings.
‘You must never use your real name again, H’ard. It’s too dangerous. It’s fucking dumb.’
The next morning there was a direct flight from Shannon to Heathrow. I took it. An ‘Out of Charge’ note was in my pocket. I went straight to Graham’s. Charlie Radcliffe was there. One of Dutch Nik’s firm had brought over a hundred kilos of Lebanese from Sam Hiraoui. It had to be sold. That would give me and Charlie another £1,500, Graham £5,000, the Dutch £2,000, and Lebanese Sam, whose diplomats brought it to Holland, £20,000. If Shannon worked, we stood to make so much more.
‘Howard, we’ll have to do a dummy first. I can’t risk my Middle East connections just on McCann’s say-so.’
‘I don’t think Jim will go for that, Graham. He’s anxious to do the real thing.’
‘He’s got no choice.’
Charlie Radcliffe said he’d have no trouble making copies of the ‘Out of Charge’ note.
After Charlie Radcliffe, Charlie Weatherley, Jarvis, and I sold the Lebanese, which merely entailed giving it to James Goldsack and waiting for the money, I drove to Brighton. Although no longer living there, I’d kept on the flat and had given McCann its address and phone number. There was a telegram waiting for me. It was from Limerick. Jim had sent it about an hour after I’d left him. It stated: ‘Send sporting goods to Ashling Distribution Services, Shannon airport. I need more money. Fitzgerald.’
I had no direct way of getting hold of Jim by telephone. There was just a mail drop in Ballinskelligs. I phoned Graham, who suggested we just went ahead and sent a dummy consignment once the ‘Out of Charge’ notes were printed but not to tell Jim it was a dummy until the last possible moment. I didn’t like it. But it made sense. Graham got Patrick Lane to put a stack of London telephone directories in a box and air-freight it to Shannon. I telegrammed the eleven-digit air waybill number to Jim’s Ballinskelligs address and express-mailed some perfectly forged ‘Out of Charge’ notes. Jim telephoned many hours later.
‘Those fuckers in Kabul have ripped you all off. Fucking telephone directories. Don’t ever fucking bother me again, you Welsh arsehole. I’m going to Kabul myself. Fucking telephone directories. They could have at least sent some dirty magazines for the boys. Tell Soppy Bollocks his days are numbered. You hear me. Fucking telephone directories.’
‘Jim, we had to do a dummy first, and there was no way of letting you know. I couldn’t say in a telegram that this was a dummy, could I? You must give me a better way of getting hold of you.’
‘I want another £500 tomorrow, without fail. Soppy had better be on the next fucking flight to Kabul, and he’d better send something other than fucking telephone directories, otherwise he’ll be without his fucking kneecaps. What’s his fucking phone number?’
‘I’m not giving you his phone number, Jim, but I will be over tomorrow morning with the money. Did you find me a cottage or something?’
‘It’s all together, man. I do what I fucking say. I deliver. I’m the Kid.’
I reported to Graham. He agreed to go out to Pakistan in the next couple of days. I flew back to Shannon, rented a car, and, as arranged, waited in the lobby of the Shannon Shamrock. Jim came in accompanied by what appeared to be a giant all-in wrestler.
‘This is Gus, H’ard. He’s a member of the Belfast Brigade’s assassination squad. I want him to know your face. Okay, Gus, you can fuck off now. Don’t forget to get John Lennon’s London address. I’ll teach that fucking arsehole a lesson he’ll never forget. H’ard, I don’t want any more fucking games, you understand me, do you?’
‘It was a simple communication breakdown, Jim. There were no games. Here’s your £500. Where’s this cottage?’
We drove to a village called Ballynacally. At one of the pubs, we picked up a farmer with whom Jim had negotiated a rental the day before. The three of us drove up a winding road to a burned-down and abandoned stately home.
‘This is Paradise,’ said the farmer.
I mumbled puzzled agreement.
‘Are we renting that, Jim? There’s no roof.’
‘Colonel William Henn used to live in that very house,’ the farmer continued, ‘but it’s the cottage nearby you’ll be renting. I didn’t get your name, by the way.’
‘His name’s Brendan,’ Jim quickly interjected.
‘Brendan what?’ asked the farmer.
‘McCarthy,’ I said. ‘My family were originally from Cork.’
‘Welcome to Paradise, Mr McCarthy.’
We drove to the remote cottage. There was absolutely no passing traffic. It would suit our purposes admirably.
‘What’s the address of this place?’ I asked the farmer.
‘Paradise Cottage, Paradise House, Paradise. But if I were you, Mr McCarthy, I’d also put on the envelope that it’s near Ballynacally.’
Driving back in the direction of the Shannon Shamrock, I asked Jim why he had chosen the name Ashling for the Limerick company.
‘Can’t you even work that out with your fucking Oxford brain? Ashling means vision in Gaelic. It’s also a combination of hashish and Aer Lingus. We could go and see the Limerick office if you like.’
The rented office was squashed between a small car-rental company and a do-it-yourself shop. Jim unlocked the door. It was a simple room with a desk and a phone. The phone worked, but Jim did not know its number. It had been the previous tenant’s private line.
‘Has Soppy Bollocks gone to Kabul?’
‘Yes, he left this morning,’ I lied.
‘How long will it take him to send me the nordle?’
‘What the hell is nordle, Jim?’
‘You have to use codes, you stupid Welsh cunt. Codes and false names. Nordle is hashish.’
‘Oh! Okay. Well, Soppy will take about a week to send you the nordle.’
‘A week! A fucking week! Why so fucking long?’
‘I don’t know, Jim.’
We continued on our journey back to the Shannon Shamrock. There was plenty of time for me to make the flight back to Heathrow, so we had a meal in the hotel’s restaurant. Jim made a phone call, and a few minutes later Gus came in. He took a seat at another table in the corner. He ignored us. We ignored him.
‘Remember, H’ard, no fucking games. Codes and false names. Then it will all flow like the grace of a Mozart concerto. You’re with me, kid. No one will bother you in Ireland. Anytime you want to get hold of me, call this number in Dublin. Don’t give it to anybody. I mean anybody. See you next time.’
A few days later, Graham still hadn’t left for the Middle East. The connection of his most suitably equipped to air-freight hashish was a man named Raoul, Mohammed Durrani’s man in Karachi. I had met him several times at Graham’s. He was a small, bespectacled, slightly overweight Pakistani about ten years my senior. Whenever I saw him, he was smiling broadly and counting large stacks of money. Graham and his Californian connection, Ernie Combs, a member of the Californian dope-dealing organisation, the Brotherhood of Eternal Love, had often sent vehicles of various descriptions to Pakistan to be filled up with Raoul’s hashish. They were then driven overland to Europe, and, in some cases, put on ships to be taken across the Atlantic. Raoul was a rich